


pride

by zeraparker



Series: the one he can't deny [6]
Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, Banter, Bathroom Sex, Clubbing, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Gay Pride, Light Angst, M/M, Pride, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 03:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20687060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: Andre jerks his head in the direction of the closet, at the bunched up fabrics in Carl’s hands. “You’re still planning to go to the parade.”Carl puts the fabric down, picking up the captain’s hat he’s found among the mess of costumes and party outfits he keeps in boxes at the bottom of the closet. Glitter from last year’s Burning Man clings to the hat that washing it couldn’t get rid of. He places it on his head, getting to his feet, adjusting the towel around his waist he had slung on after his shower.“Very much so.”~ before NYEprix





	pride

**Author's Note:**

> No excuse for this, I'm just having too much fun with these idiots, and Carl posted that convenient 'happy Pride' picture on his art insta before NYE so I just added Andre into the mix of the people he apparently was partying with. Probably enough OOCness in this to warrant me hand in my writers liscence, but yeah, idek. I just want Andre to wear rainbow braces and have some fun in his life, ffs. If you see this, Andre, go live a little.
> 
> [Also I have watched too much QaF recently, which I know is a TV series and not an accurate representation of gay life, but the series is still amazing no matter that it's almost 20 years old now.]

Carl’s phone starts beeping with missed messages, emails and calls as soon as he switches it on, the plane still taxing across the runway to where it will be parked for the next week. He sighs, thumbing through the emails first, checking whether anything needs his immediate attention. There’s a reply from the hotel he’s booked for Andre among the spam and promo inquiries for Jev during the week, and he opens it, reading through the short confirmation while he chews on his lower lip. He looks up and across at Andre who is starting to sort his belongings into his hand luggage, folding the blanket he’d been dozing under neatly.

“Your hotel room has been confirmed,” Carl tells him, watching as Andre meets his eyes, the quirk of his eyebrow.

“I thought I was staying at your place,” Andre asks back, his hand fidgeting where it’s resting on top of the blanket, fingers playing with a fold in the fabric.

“I don’t have a guest bedroom.”

Andre’s lips curl into a leer, but there’s a vulnerability beneath it that makes Carl kick himself inwardly for having brought it up. “It’s not like I made you sleep in the guest bedroom either.”

Carl shrugs. “It’s Pride though. I was just thinking, it’s easier if you wanted to pick someone up.” The plane comes to a stop and Carl unbuckles his safety belt, standing up and raising his arms over his head for a good stretch after sitting for so long, his smartphone still clutched in his hand. When he glances back down, Andre is still looking at him, confusion written all over his face.

“Pride?”

With a frown, Carl drops back into his seat, leaning forwards. “Yeah, Pride. The parade is tomorrow, that’s why I’d planned to fly out early, meet up with my friends, do the parade, a little partying. It’s almost summer break anyway,” he explains. “Wait, you have been to a Pride event before, right?”

The question startles a laugh out of Andre, but it doesn’t sound like a happy one. “Are you kidding me? What if someone saw me?”

It’s Carl’s turn to laugh. “There will be more than three million people attending. I think Barack Obama could march along wearing nothing but a golden glitter thong and a feather scarf and go unnoticed.” Okay, maybe he’s exaggerating a little, but the incredulous look on Andre’s face is worth it. “You’re not that big news here, Andre.”

“Thank you fucking much,” Andre shoots back, getting up from his seat, picking up his hand luggage. They drop the conversation for the time being as they leave the plane, Carl chatting with the pilot for a short moment, before they head down the stairs and across the runway with their luggage, doing the tedious interviews in immigration and customs which get thankfully shortened by the fact that they arrived by his private plane, not having to line up in the main terminal with everyone else.

In the cab taking them towards Brooklyn Andre picks up the topic again.

“So that was your plan for the weekend? Do the parade, hook up with someone?” he asks, resolutely staring out of the window on the other side of the car.

Carl grins wryly though Andre doesn’t look at him, doesn’t see. “It’s what I usually do when I’m in New York.” He fell in love with the city a long time ago, a place where he didn’t feel the shadow of his family, where he felt unobserved for the first time in his life. It’s never lost that charm for him. He isn’t like Andre; solitude is all good and well, but it makes him itchy. He prefers to be among people to relax, prefers the bustling of a crowd to the stillness of the countryside. He doesn’t know yet whether it will be where he’ll settle down in the long run, but it’s definitely among his favourite places right now.

Andre is still looking out of the window, following the distant skyline with his eyes. “I should get out of your hair then. I don’t want to cross your plans.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Carl says, trying to go back through their conversation, find out where it had veered off the path to give Andre the impression he wasn’t welcome. He reaches out across the seat of the cab, his fingers stroking down Andre’s arm to grasp his hand, linking their fingers together. “I didn’t mean to say you’re intruding. I wouldn’t have asked you along if I felt that way.” He squeezes Andre’s hand reassuringly. “Stay at my place. Come to Pride with me,” he invites, but he can see the doubt in Andre’s eyes when he turns his head to look at him.

“Carl-“ Andre starts, but Carl doesn’t let him finish voicing his doubts.

“You don’t have to, okay? But come to my place, let’s go meet the others for dinner tonight and see how you feel about them. And then you can decide tomorrow, yes?” he insists gently, his thumb rubbing circles against Andre’s palm.

“No promises,” Andre agrees reluctantly, insecurity lingering around the curve of his mouth.

“Okay, this is a fucking sex cave,” Andre exclaims after he’s followed Carl into his loft in Brooklyn. Carl looks up from where he’s tossed his keys onto the kitchen island dividing the open space into kitchen and lounge area, watching Andre pull his luggage into the middle of the room and shrug out of his leather jacket, folding it over the handle before he abandons it to start looking around the open layout of the loft. He spreads his arms to both sides as he turns back towards Carl, eyebrows raised. “Wow.”

Carl can’t hide his smile, knowing how much Andre appreciates interior design, his own home in Gordes the work of a skilled designer and his shelves full of books on the topic. His loft is filled with just as many design objects, leather furniture from Italy, marble counter tops and light fixtures expensive enough to pay for a small car. It’s nothing like the flat he owns in Paris, all hardwood floors and stucco around the ceilings; it’s industrial chic and clean modern lines, and Carl likes it a lot.

“Bedroom is through there,” Carl says, pointing at a milky glass divider. “En-suite too. Make yourself at home, we’ve got a couple of hours until dinner with the gang.” Andre nods, reaching for his suitcase and heading where he’s been told. Carl watches him go, then turns towards the kitchen, opening the fridge. He hasn’t been back in way too long, he thinks as he stares at the mostly empty fridge, only a couple bottles of water at the bottom, a questionable carton of milk he finds in the door that he shakes carefully. He makes a mental list of things he’ll need to get through the week, checking the cupboards too for some non-perishables stored there.

His mind set on checking the bathroom for anything missing, anything they need to buy, he walks into the bedroom only to find Andre’s luggage at the foot of the bed as Andre is standing by the sideboard against the wall, looking at the large framed photograph hung above it.

“Did you take this?” Andre asks over his shoulder having heard Carl enter the room.

Carl walks up to him, feeling a shiver run down his spine as his eyes follow Andre’s gaze to the picture on the wall. “No,” he says, resting his hands on Andre’s waist as he reaches him, nuzzling along his neck to place a kiss below his ear. “That’s me.” He can hear Andre gasp in surprise. Carl straightens, looking at the picture, trying to see it through Andre’s eyes, but the memories of the coils of rope around his naked torso, the thick V of knots running down his back and the loops around his arms as they had been drawn upwards by a winch fastened above his head outside the scope of the camera are still burned into his mind no matter the years that have passed since the picture was taken. The guy he’d been dating back then had been a shibari enthusiast; they had met at a party where he’d given a show, had got talking when Carl had asked him to photograph some of the people he’d tied up, the contrast of colourful rope against the different hues of skin speaking to him. It hadn’t taken long for him to find himself tied up for the first time, the strong hold of the ropes around his limbs a sensual experience like none he’d had before then. “Have you ever tried it?”

Andre shakes his head. “No.” His voice is lower than before, husky.

Carl can’t help himself, biting gently at Andre’s neck, not strong enough to leave a mark. “I could show you if you want, some time,” he offers, the thought of working the ropes around Andre’s strong muscles making his cock stir with interest.

“Maybe,” Andre murmurs after a long moment of silence. He takes a step away, twisting out of Carl’s loose hold and turns towards his suitcase, busying himself with hoisting it onto the foot of the bed, undoing the zippers. He’s blushing, the redness of his skin having spread to his ears. Carl grins, reaching out to run his fingers along Andre’s belt as he walks past him to the bathroom door, returning to what he had in mind earlier.

“So you’re really going to do this?”

“Hm?” Carl sits back on his haunches, turning to look past the closet door at the bed. Andre has moved closer to the edge of the mattress, still wrapped up in the sheets. Jetlag had made them wake up too early, despite how late they had returned to his flat after a drawn out dinner and drinks in one of his favourite bars. Andre had sat by his side throughout the evening, but he’d easily fit into the group, ended up chatting with some of the others, and by the time they had wandered from the restaurant to the bar Carl had smiled watching Andre walk a couple meters in front of him, talking animatedly about photography and travel destinations with one of his friends. By the time they said their goodbyes it had been past midnight. They had fallen asleep tired from the long day spanned over a handful time zones as soon as they’d stretched out on the bed, only to wake up a couple hours later at the break of dawn, their body clocks still adjusted to middle Europe. In the early hours of morning Carl had scooted over, drawn close by Andre’s hands combing through his hair, sharing sleepy touches and kisses. They had fucked slowly, languidly, gentle echoes of pleasure still tingling through his body when he looks at Andre now, seeing the same lazy contentment in his eyes.

Andre jerks his head in the direction of the closet, at the bunched up fabrics in Carl’s hands. “You’re still planning to go to the parade.”

Carl puts the fabric down, picking up the captain’s hat he’s found among the mess of costumes and party outfits he keeps in boxes at the bottom of the closet. Glitter from last year’s Burning Man clings to the hat that washing it couldn’t get rid of. He places it on his head, getting to his feet, adjusting the towel around his waist he had slung on after his shower.

“Very much so.”

He walks over to the bed, easily stepping up onto the squashy mattress. He balances his weight, looking down at Andre rolling onto his back, and slides to his knees in a fluid motion that captures Andre between his thighs.

“Wearing that?” Andre asks, reaching up to plug the hat from Carl’s head to turn it over in his hands.

Carl cocks his head to the side. “Well, I thought about also putting on some pants, but those are still up for debate.” His words startle a laugh out of Andre. Carl lifts his hands in defence when Andre tries to swat him with the hat. “Come on, don’t be a party pooper. It’ll be fun.”

Andre stares at the hat, turning it over in his hands again. “I didn’t bring anything to wear. That I don’t want to be covered in glitter afterwards,” he clarifies.

“You’re welcome to help yourself to something from my wardrobe,” Carl offers, motioning at the open closet behind them. “But don’t bother putting on too many layers, you’re not going to keep them on long anyway.”

“I don’t know,” Andre says after a long pause. With a sigh, he reaches out to put the hat back on Carl’s head. “This isn’t a good idea.” His hands stroke over Carl’s shoulders, distracting himself as he moves them down over Carl’s chest, settling against his flanks.

“Why not?” Carl asks gently, trying to read Andre’s mood, but Andre’s eyes aren’t meeting his, stuck to where his palms are warm against Carl’s skin, making it hard to figure out what’s going on inside him. “Talk to me, please.”

“It just isn’t a good idea. The race is next weekend, the Boss thing is in three days. There are probably some people already around, what if someone sees me?” He finally looks up, meeting Carl’s eyes for a short moment. “What if someone takes a picture and tags me and puts it on Insta and the Boss guys see and the Porsche guys too, I mean they haven’t officially presented me, they could just as well drop the contract before the announcement and no one would know, and then I wouldn’t have a seat for next season and-“ The words are just flowing out of him in one anxious, fast ramble that Carl can barely keep up with.

“Wait, slow down,” he interrupts Andre, reaching out to cup his cheek, feeling Andre’s stubble prickly against his palm. “You’re not going to lose your contract. You’re too valuable for them, I mean, you did see the cash they coughed up for you, right?” It had been a staggering amount, surprising even Carl when Jev had forwarded the email Porsche had sent to Techeetah. “No one’s going to recognize you. It’s a huge parade. We’ll just disappear in the crowd.” Andre doesn’t look convinced. Carl leans down, bracing himself against the pillow next to Andre’s head, kissing him softly. He can feel the anxiety making Andre’s body tense beneath him, rubs his thumb in a soothing circle beneath Andre’s ear. “You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to,” he says calmly.

Andre sighs, closing his eyes, a frown edged into his forehead. “It’s just too risky.”

“It isn’t riskier than going to a club at home, probably less so,” Carl argues back.

“Yeah, that’s why I don’t,” Andre admits, shaking his head a little.

Carl frowns. “You don’t? Like, never?”

“Well, when I was in Japan, sometimes. But that was before Lemans. Before everyone’s got a smartphone and social media and Instagram.”

Carl tries to do the math in his head, trying to figure out how long ago that must have been. “But that’s been years ago.” Andre shrugs helplessly. “Where do you go if you want to pick someone up?”

“In the paddock?” Andre says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The Audi trainings camp wasn’t bad either. There’s always someone, and they know the risk, they wouldn’t want anyone to know either.” It all sounds so very reasonable, but also like not much fun.

“Everything revolves around the racing world for you,” Carl observes.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Andre shoots back. “The other stuff can wait.”

“Until when? Until you’re done racing?”

“It’s not important.”

Carl shakes his head. “Being yourself isn’t important? Expressing yourself? Having fun?”

“I’m having fun,” Andre bites back defensively. He meets Carl’s gaze head on, stubborn defiance in his gaze, his jaw set in challenge. “It just isn’t that simple, Carl.”

With a sigh, Carl rolls to the side, stretching out on the bed next to Andre. He watches Andre stare at the ceiling, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he swallows, the tense sinew around his neck and shoulders. It’s an iron control Andre exerts over his body, his mind; it’s years of discipline and determination, his whole life goal-oriented in a way that shaped him into one of the best of his sport, a self-sacrificing streak strong enough to destroy the hurdles put into his way by rivals. There’s a self-destructive side to it too, though, one that Carl knows all too well from Jev, one he didn’t take serious enough, argued away until Jev had ended up in hospital, until it almost cost him everything, destroying his career with the same force as it had crushed his rivals on track. Jev eventually managed to get himself out of that spiral, and the last months with Lorene at his side, showing him a world outside of the racing paddocks, giving him something else outside the bubble he’d grown up in, have been some of the happiest of his life. Carl can see the same cracks in Andre’s façade he’d so light-heartedly ignored when they had appeared in Jev, and he’s not going to watch the same darkness envelope someone else he cares so much for.

“It can be that simple. Let’s go have fun today, yeah?” he asks quietly, moving closer to press a kiss to Andre’s naked shoulder. “I promise no one will recognise you.”

Andre stares at the ceiling a moment longer before he turns his head to the side. The naked fear in his eyes, so similar to the panic Carl had watched cloud his gaze only a few weeks ago, makes Carl’s mouth turn dry. “How can you be so sure?” he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Trust me?” Carl asks, waiting breathlessly until Andre nods slightly. “Give me your phone.”

Andre frowns but stretches out his arm towards the nightstand, fishing blindly for his phone. He looks at the screen, unlocking it with his thumb before he hands it over. Carl angles the screen so Andre can see as he opens the photo folder, thumbing through the recently taken pictures until he finds a small clip of Max lounging around Andre’s house in Gordes. It’s been taken indoors, only showing the dog doing something silly with a chew toy, doesn’t give a time of day either. Carl is pretty certain Andre hasn’t posted it before. Adding it to Andre’s Instagram story doesn’t take more than a couple of seconds.

“See, now everyone thinks you’re still in France,” he explains as he hands the phone back to Andre. “Only some of the team know you aren’t going to fly out with them as planned tomorrow. Only your mum knows you left Max with her and aren’t in Gordes anymore.” He cups Andre’s cheek again, leaning in to give him a long kiss, full of reassurance and calm, then bites at Andre’s bottom lip playfully, trying to get him out of his pensive mood. “And now we’re going to pick an outfit for you to blend in with everyone else, and no one will notice, okay?” He sits up, eyes going back to the wardrobe, already mentally raffling through options. “I fear you’ll have to ditch your trademark sunglasses though. How about some heart-shaped ones?”

The club is dark and crowded, the thump of the base so loud Carl can feel it reverberate beneath his sternum. They’re up on one of the metal walkways which span the width of the club and connect different levels and sitting areas, the railings painted with fluorescent paint making the structures glow under the blue LEDs above. It’s a less frantic area of the club: people are moving about in a thick, steady flow, but all the colourful lights and strobes are directed at the dancing crowd below, the speakers angled downwards too. Below them, the dancers form a thick mass of bodies, writhing to the beat, the lights glinting off sequins and sweat-slick skin. And there’s a lot of skin on display. It’s hot inside the club, the space filled to absolute maximum capacity with a long line of partygoers still waiting outside in the hopes to be allowed in. Many dancers have shed their shirts, or at least rolled up their sleeves. Heat is radiating off the crowd that the air conditioning is fighting futilely.

Carl regrets having opted for his long jeans, despite how tight they are and how good they make his arse look. At least he didn’t put on a shirt, just the jeans vest to match, but his skin feels tacky, the glass of rum and coke in his hand warmed by now. They aren’t drinking to get drunk, not with the race at the end of the week for Andre and the headache Carl knows he’ll get as soon as Jev arrives and the ensuing tension between them. For now though Andre is leaning against the railing next to him, their arms pressed against each other in the cramped space. Andre has got the short sleeves of his white t shirt rolled up to expose his shoulders. He’s wearing Carl’s pair of jeans shorts: the pair is a little too wide on his hips, had slid down precariously when Carl had made Andre model them around the flat, but now safely held up by a set of rainbow striped braces. The mirrored sunglasses Andre hid behind for most of the day are dangling from the collar of his t shirt. Carl is grateful for that. Guessing Andre’s mood throughout the day hadn’t been easy, though he visibly relaxed once they had immersed themselves into the crowd, once Andre realised just how many people would be there, how anonymous the mass parading through the streets was. Now inside the club with its shadows and flashy lights distorting the people around them, with the safe layer of concrete between them and the outside world, he seems to finally let go a little. One of his feet is tapping along to the beat of the music, the almost empty glass dangling from his fingers over the railing. His styled hair has turned loose, the damp heat inside the club making it frizz out of its usual neat coif. His gaze is resolutely fixed on something below. Carl follows it, trying to figure out what has caught his attention, but it’s hard to tell: maybe the group of guys who’ve stripped down to matching sparkly thongs, dancing wildly in the middle of the floor; maybe the kinksters in their vinyl shirts that must be way too hot in the already hot air inside the club; maybe the couple pressed against the side of the stage, lost in each other with their hands groping at each other in a way that would easily fit into any x-rated amateur movie.

Carl lifts his glass to his lips, swallowing the last mouthful of by now warm rum and coke, just so keeping from pulling a face. Glancing to the side he can see that Andre’s glass is empty too, and he reaches out, stealing it from his fingers. It brakes Andre’s focus on the people below.

“Come on.” Carl forms the words with his mouth, though he knows they won’t carry over the noise inside the club. He jerks his head in the direction of the stairs, quirking his eyebrow. Andre nods his understanding. Carl can feel his fingers hook through the leather belt around his waist as they start moving through the dense crowd towards the next bar where Carl puts down their glasses and then turns around, capturing Andre’s hand before he can wave for another drink, walking backwards as he drags Andre onto the dancefloor. The expression on Andre’s face is doubtful at first, but Carl knows he likes dancing, enough restless energy inside him that is easily dissipated by movement, has seen him dance in various states of inebriation after race weekends and at the movie premiere in Cannes not long ago. It doesn’t take long for Andre to fall into the beat of the music, moving along with the swaying crowd pushing in around them. There isn’t a lot of space to move freely, but Carl enjoys the almost suffocating closeness of the people all around him, accidental touches and not so accidental ones from the other dancers.

It also has the benefit of Andre staying close to him, their bodies almost constantly within each other’s personal space. Carl reaches out for him, one hand settling around Andre’s waist, curling into the fabric of his shirt as they dance together. It doesn’t take long for Andre’s shirt to get clingy with sweat, the light fabric slowly soaking through. Carl tugs on it, dragging the hem from the waistband of Andre’s shorts, touching his hot skin with his fingertips. Andre copies him, running his hand in between the jeans fabric of Carl’s vest and his chest, scratching blunt fingernails through his chest hair, the groan drawn from Carl’s throat at the sensation getting lost in the noise of the music throbbing around them.

Andre startles, drawing his hand away when some guy grinds against him from the side, trying to get Andre’s attention. Carl smirks, taking a step back and finding himself rubbing shoulders with someone else too, giving Andre space, watching as he turns towards the blond, falling into a rhythm with him. The crowd pushes in around them, someone ending up in the small space that had opened up, and Carl sighs happily, letting himself get swapped away, focussing on the other dancers around him, and for the next hour or so that’s all that matters. He catches glimpses of Andre here and there, but they’re both dancing by themselves or with whoever offers, whoever comes close and falls into rhythm. The sudden bang of an explosion above makes them all lift their heads, a cheer going through many of them as thick flakes of gold and silver glitter start floating down from the ceiling, being carried by the air currents inside the club, sticking to the sweaty skin of Carl’s arms and reflecting the lights.

Strong arms encircle his waist, hands stroking over his stomach, thumbs hooked behind his belt buckle. Carl wants to turn his head, but the movement gets aborted when sharp teeth nip at his neck, sucking a bruise into his skin. Carl groans, leaning back into Andre’s chest, swaying with him as he allows Andre to bite and kiss at his neck, only twisting his head when Andre pulls back a little. He almost does a doubletake, seeing the excited twinkle in Andre’s eyes, and that he’s lost his shirt, the gold and silver flitter sticking to his shoulders.

“God, look at you.” Carl turns around in the circle of Andre’s arms, one of his hands grabbing onto Andre’s hip, pushing back over the fabric of his shorts to cup his arse, drag him close. He makes a show of letting his eyes wander down Andre’s naked chest to the waistband of his shorts where the white fabric of his shirt is tugged through one of the beltloops and the back of his braces. The heart-shaped sunglasses are gone, but Carl doesn’t care. He runs his fingers over Andre’s skin, pushing away one of the plastic gold flitter pieces, then hooks his finger under the elastics of the rainbow braces and draws it taut. It slips off his finger, flicking back against Andre’s chest, against his nipple. Andre flinches visibly, and Carl catches the last echoes of his moan as he presses their lips together in a hot and demanding kiss. Andre answers in kind, the energy inside the club having rubbed off on him, the anonymity of the dancing crowd. He is wild in Carl’s arms, almost ecstatic, lit up in a way Carl only remembers from last year’s championship party, from drunken nights in the Mediterranean. It’s such a change to his recent depressed mood that Carl feels like he’s with a different person, that he wants to cling to this energy, to this happiness and take it along for Andre to remember when the walls of the paddock press in around him again by the end of the week. Fuck, he wants him, he wants him so much.

Carl pulls Andre close, their naked chests sticking together where his vest splays open. “I want to fuck you,” he says, his mouth close to Andre’s ear, his voice raised enough to carry over the noise in the club. He presses one thigh between Andre’s, grinding against him to the beat of the music. “Let me have you.” Andre kisses him again, the yes murmured between their lips.

He almost regrets having to let go of Andre, to take a step back. He uses his grip to turn Andre around, his hands settling over Andre’s shoulders to steer him through the dense crowd through the club. For a moment, Andre tries to move towards the exit, his body turning in that direction, but Carl has set his mind on a different target, pushing his thumbs into Andre’s back to make him turn him around, to keep walking towards the hallway leading to the back of the club, following the signs indicating the restrooms. Andre’s steps falter slightly, but Carl keeps steering them forwards until they reach the restrooms. Like everywhere inside the club, it’s busy here too, most of the clubbers gathered by the urinals along one wall of the long room. The music is less deafening here, but still loud enough to make people shout to be heard. The row of stalls are made up of black metal. Some of the doors are locked. Carl steers them past those, sure that at least behind some of them guys are fucking. One of the doors which is slightly ajar he pushes open and then drags Andre into the cramped space, throwing the door shut behind him and pushing him up against it, his hand going to the lock, his other cupping the back of Andre’s head, pulling him into a searing kiss.

Andre groans, slumping back against the door. His hands are all over Carl’s body, grasping for him, pushing beneath the fabric of his vest and into the back of his jeans to pull him close. His legs are splayed enough for Carl to push a thigh between his, both moaning as they grind against each other, their cocks hard beneath the layers of jeans separating them. This isn’t new to them, not even the setting, reminding Carl too much of all the paddocks in which they’ve stolen a moment over the past years, of the afterparties where Andre had steered him away with a hand on his elbow, slinking into bathrooms or utility rooms within the motorhomes, anywhere with a lock and a couple minutes of solitude, ending in a messy handjob or one of them on their knees for the other.

But Carl wants more, now. He drags his lips away from Andre’s mouth, liking and biting at his neck, pushing the rainbow braces off his left shoulder as he noses along his collar bone. He pushes one hand down the back of Andre’s shorts, beneath the clingy fabric of his underwear. His blunt fingernails dig into the soft skin of his arse cheek. Andre cants his hips forwards, rubbing his crotch shamelessly against Carl’s thigh as Carl presses his fingers forwards, fingertips skimming through his crack, over his arsehole. Andre moans, pushing his arse back in offering. Carl pulls his head back to look at Andre, finding Andre watching him through narrow eyes, his face flushed, biting at his lip. The muscles around Andre’s eyes twitch as Carl fingers him lightly, watching for signs of distress, but there’s only desire shining in Andre’s eyes.

“Turn around,” Carl orders, urgency rushing through his nerves. He is grateful when Andre doesn’t question him, doesn’t do more than steal another quick kiss before he complies, turning in the cramped space between Carl’s body and the door. With a snap, Carl unhooks the clamp holding the braces to the back of Andre’s shorts, the elastic flicking up over his back and making him flinch. Carl pushes against his back, crowding him against the metal door as Andre raises his arms holding onto the edge of the door above their heads, his body stretched out. The shorts, loose around Andre’s waist to begin with, need only little encouragement to slide over the swell of his arse. Carl hooks his thumbs into the fabric, pushing them and Andre’s underwear down to his thighs, doesn’t care whether they slide down to the floor. Andre groans, arching away from the cool metal of the door that’s littered with sharpie tags, but Carl doesn’t allow him to get away, stepping into his personal space, thrusting his hips forwards to grind his cock against Andre’s arse, the jeans he’s still wearing a mocking barrier between them as he digs a sachet of lube from his back pocket, ripping it open with his teeth.

“God, Carl, come on,” Andre groans, canting his hips back as he glances over his shoulder, a wild desperation in his eyes.

Carl slicks up his fingers, some lube dripping to the ground in his haste. “So filthy, Andre. So good.” Carl leans forwards, biting at Andre’s neck as he slicks his fingers between Andre’s arse cheeks, circling his hole, teasing him for a moment, but neither of them wants to wait. This isn’t about drawing it out, this is all about the completion, so he presses his fingers into Andre, feeling him clench and then open up around the invasion.

“Fuck,” Andre grits out, shuddering even as he bucks his hips back, welcoming him into the tight heat of his body.

“Yeah, moan for me. Let them all hear how much you want my cock,” Carl says, his voice hoarse. Fuck, he wants him. He can see the muscles in Andre’s arm work as his grip on the stall tightens, leans in to bite at his biceps and drag another wanton sound from his throat. He twists his fingers inside him, trying to prep him quickly. He knows it must burn, but Andre doesn’t try to squirm away, instead bucks his hips backwards into Carl’s touch, harsher than Carl anticipated. Carl drops the empty sachet to the floor, digging another pack out of his pocket and takes it between his teeth, holds it there as he uses his free hand to undo his belt, to tear open the buttons of his jeans, free his cock. He rips open the lube sachet with his teeth, spits the plastic he bit off to the floor. He drags his fingers from Andre’s arse, spreads some of the lube over them to push back into with one more, feeling Andre clench around him. This isn’t like the gentle, lazy fucking they’ve recently indulged in, it feels more like a fight as Andre curses as he’s breached again, the metal door rattling under his grasp.

“Fucking do it already,” Andre grits out, twitching when Carl pushes against his prostate deliberately. He squeezes what’s left of the lube over his cock, jerking himself a couple times to take the edge off, to give himself a little relief. He doesn’t want to come the second he finally gets his cock inside Andre – he isn’t a teenager after all – but he doesn’t have any illusions that he’ll last long, his cock throbbing in his palm.

“I love how desperate you are,” Carl says, leaning in to lick over Andre’s neck, tasting the salty sweat on his skin and then bites at his neck as he lines up his cock, thrusting forwards. They groan in unison. For a moment Carl thinks Andre isn’t ready, not prepared enough the way his body is clenching tightly around him, fighting him, but then Andre exhales, his whole body going pliant as he leans heavily onto the stall, and it’s Carl’s turn to curse as he sinks into him in one long push. He lifts his hands, stroking up along Andre’s arms to curl his fingers around Andre’s hands, feeling the tight grip he has on the top of the toilet stall, anchoring him there as he slowly grinds into him, feeling his body give, slowly adjusting to the steady rocking motion.

“God, yes,” Andre groans, moving back into Carl’s thrusts, upping the rhythm and strength. Carl can feel how much he wants it, how hot and slick Andre’s body is against his. They’ve done this often enough by now that Carl knows exactly where to touch Andre, knows exactly how to fuck him to drive him wild. He’s using all that knowledge now, letting go of one of Andre’s hands to clutch his hip, to hold him exactly how he needs him to thrust against his prostate, to make him see stars.

“Do you want to come?” Carl asks, breathless himself.

Andre nods, the groaned _please_ almost drowned out by the muffled music and the crude slap of skin against skin that Carl is sure carries through the metal door for whoever walks past their toilet stall to hear. It makes his skin prickle to know about the guys in the restroom listening to them, being witness knowingly or not, a thrill similar to fucking in the paddock, if less dangerous yet just as fun.

“Touch yourself,” Carl prompts, one hand busy holding Andre’s hips in place, the fingers of the other still curled around Andre’s on top of the door. “Jerk yourself off, come on. I want to see your spunk all over that door.” With a groan, Andre drops his hand to his own cock, squeezing it tightly before his fingers touch lower down over his balls and further back until Carl can feel them against his own dick where he is thrusting in and out of Andre’s arse, can feel Andre touch himself there, exploring. “You’re taking it so well, you’re such a good slut,” Carl praises him, feeling Andre shiver as he draws his hand back, clenching around him as he starts jerking his cock. Andre’s breath hitches, his body moving more erratically as he’s chasing his orgasm, their rhythm faltering slightly. “Do you like me telling you how good you feel?” Carl asks, genuinely curious as to what makes Andre tick, what triggers his pleasure. “I would let the whole world know. I can’t, but I would,” he promises, leaning in to lick and suck on Andre’s neck again. “I’m going to make you come, and then I’m going to walk you home, past all these guys who’ve listened to us fuck. And then outside, where people are going to see you and not know that my come is still leaking out of your arse.”

The shout that’s ripped from Andre’s throat as he comes is louder and more violent than Carl expected. He curses, pushing his hips back to make Carl impale him on his dick as his body clenches around him, milky spunk spilling from his cock, droplets shiny against the dark metal of the door, sliding down the sheer surface. The feeling and the sight easily drag Carl along, and he finds himself coming only seconds after Andre, stifling his own groans against Andre’s neck, biting at his skin.

“Fuck, so good.” Carl sighs, slumping against Andre. He wraps both arms around Andre’s waist, not caring that he pushes Andre forwards against the door, into the stains of his spunk. They let the door carry their weight as they catch their breath, the captain’s hat Carl is still wearing hanging lopsided on his head as he nuzzles along Andre’s neck, nosing through the short hair behind his ear. Andre winces slightly when Carl pulls away, doing up his jeans. Andre visibly makes an effort to unclench his fingers where he’s still got them hooked over the top of the door before he shuffles to turn around, leaning back against the door as he’s facing Carl. “So debauched,” Carl murmurs, grinning as he skims one finger down Andre’s cock, making him shiver from oversensitivity. Then he leans down, taking a hold on the fabric of Andre’s shorts and pulls them up, fastening the shorts around his waist. He drags Andre’s white t shirt from where it was tugged through one of the belt loops, shaking out the fabric before he dresses Andre in it again, not caring for the way Andre wrinkles his nose at the soiled fabric. He clips the braces back into place at the waistband of Andre’s shorts, making the elastics flick against his chest, the sting muffled by the fabric of his t shirt. He catches Andre’s gaze, but can’t help smirking. “I’d say you look presentable, but I’d be lying. You still look like you’ve just been fucked.”

His words startle a surprised, throaty laugh from Andre. “I feel disgusting,” Andre admits, but his smile is a lazy, lascivious curl around the corners of his mouth, his eyes slumberous and dark. “I need a shower.”

“Hmm, yes, let’s get you home and naked and soaped up,” Carl agrees, leaning in to share a slow, dirty kiss. “We haven’t fucked in a shower yet, have we?” he asks feeling Andre shudder.


End file.
